PART 8: The Man Who Had Everything and The Woman With No Art
The hostler left, quietly shutting the door behind him, and The Man Who Had Everything fell into a deep sleep. He woke what seemed to be hours later to an odd creaking sound. The room was silent. The full moon peeped in through the window festooned with lace curtains, and spilled a patch of silvery light onto the bed.
The Man Who Had Everything was shivering with cold, and drew the candlewick bed-spread over his legs up to his shoulders. In the breathless silence the creaking of the floorboards sounded even louder. He drew the bed-spread even higher and buried himself deeper in the bed, like a frightened child; the memories of the previous evening unreeling through his mind.
How silly...He'd had much too much to drink.That and the Fae-tales of the hostler, combined with the know-it all presumption of an unpleasant dinner companion had distilled a potent brew, and the result was obviously delusion, hallucination...
The Man Who Had Everything lay for a long time and thought about his life. Obviously the woman Mia had stuck her finger in a few sore spots. Perhaps some of these he'd consider addressing on his return to New York. Therapy might help; that or a healthy dose of honesty with the people in his life. His wife, for one; and himself. Mostly himself. He would shelve his career for a while. Take some time off, go to the mountains alone to think, and maybe compose, as he's been wanting to do for years.
Yes. It was time to make some changes. He could certainly afford them, and if his wife and his agents didn't agree? Well, screw them! They had all drawn considerable financial dividends from his work, now it was his turn to go his own way; learn some new tricks, be free.
Some old lines from a poem he's read in school flitted through his mind.
"'T' is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die..."
The sound of his own voice startled him, and he laughed out loud at his own fright. Then over his laughter chanted a sweet silvery voice: "It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles..."
He started up, and there, perched at the bottom of the bed - her hair in a wash of moonlight - was The Woman With No Art.
"The Happy Isles, Michael, the very isles that doth lie in the sundering Ocean betwix thy heart and mine, where in the blessed few reside..." and then to his terror, she smiled. "I want thee, beloved, and I shall not be denied."
Manuela Cardiga
The Man Who Had Everything was shivering with cold, and drew the candlewick bed-spread over his legs up to his shoulders. In the breathless silence the creaking of the floorboards sounded even louder. He drew the bed-spread even higher and buried himself deeper in the bed, like a frightened child; the memories of the previous evening unreeling through his mind.
How silly...He'd had much too much to drink.That and the Fae-tales of the hostler, combined with the know-it all presumption of an unpleasant dinner companion had distilled a potent brew, and the result was obviously delusion, hallucination...
The Man Who Had Everything lay for a long time and thought about his life. Obviously the woman Mia had stuck her finger in a few sore spots. Perhaps some of these he'd consider addressing on his return to New York. Therapy might help; that or a healthy dose of honesty with the people in his life. His wife, for one; and himself. Mostly himself. He would shelve his career for a while. Take some time off, go to the mountains alone to think, and maybe compose, as he's been wanting to do for years.
Yes. It was time to make some changes. He could certainly afford them, and if his wife and his agents didn't agree? Well, screw them! They had all drawn considerable financial dividends from his work, now it was his turn to go his own way; learn some new tricks, be free.
Some old lines from a poem he's read in school flitted through his mind.
"'T' is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die..."
The sound of his own voice startled him, and he laughed out loud at his own fright. Then over his laughter chanted a sweet silvery voice: "It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles..."
He started up, and there, perched at the bottom of the bed - her hair in a wash of moonlight - was The Woman With No Art.
"The Happy Isles, Michael, the very isles that doth lie in the sundering Ocean betwix thy heart and mine, where in the blessed few reside..." and then to his terror, she smiled. "I want thee, beloved, and I shall not be denied."
Manuela Cardiga
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